12
The wonderful thing about having dinner with Alexei was that he made the preparation and cooking of food an adventure. He would be great on a cooking show. Apart from the movie-star good looks, he could cook and explain at the same time. He didn’t need to think about what he was going to say, nor did he have to stop what he was doing in order to speak. He crumpled a handful of fresh oregano in his palm, then opened it and wafted the fresh bruised herbs under her nose as he explained, “Sure, you can use dried herbs. But when you use fresh oregano, the way we do in Greece, you’ll get a truer flavor.”
He talked about the olives and the olive oil and the kind of soil that grew the best sorts of olives even as he glugged gold liquid into a pan. It was as though he were having a conversation, not only with her, but with the food itself. “It’s like you talk to the dish you’re cooking,” she said finally.
“Absolutely. It’s not only me talking to the food but ingredients communicating with each other. It’s like with you growing the plants, some help each other and some don’t. Certain foods don’t like each other. They’ve had a feud going on for generations. Combine them and they will make your dinner taste all wrong. You know? Like it’s in a big fight. But, you put foods together that already like each other, or introduce a couple of new ingredients and let them flirt with each other, and it’s amazing what can happen. It’s like magic.”
She watched, fascinated, as he diced and stirred, sautéed and tasted, murmured over the pots like a magician and added a sprinkle of this, a splash of that. His hands worked rapidly, making knives and spoons dance and play like musical instruments. When he paused for a second, she noticed a scar on his index finger. It was a paler ripple of flesh and fascinated her as everything about him fascinated her.
She said, “What happened to you there?” She touched the puckered skin with her fingertip.
He peered at it. “I burned it,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Don’t you remember when? It looks like it was painful.”
He shrugged. “Could’ve been the time I was working in a kitchen that caught fire. We had to put the flames out so we could finish cooking dinner. The restaurant was fully booked.” He grinned in memory. “That was a crazy night. Or it might’ve been one time I lost my concentration around something hot when I shouldn’t have.” He opened both his hands out and offered them to her and she could see scars and burn marks. They enthralled her the way a map or piece of art might fascinate her. “What about this one?” She ran her fingertip across a scar that was like a white line drawn across the pad of his palm. She couldn’t seem to stop her hands from touching his.
“Sharp knife, dull wits.”
“Come on. I can see the stitch marks. You remember this one. It bought you a trip to the emergency room.”
He chuckled. “I’ve had a few of those. I think that one was a knife sharpening accident.”
“A knife sharpening accident?”
He grinned at her. “You have to admit I’m a good knife sharpener. It was a very sharp knife. Look how clean that slice is.”
After she’d admired his scars and burns, he took one of her hands in his.
He opened the fingers slowly, one at a time. And he ran the tip of his fingertip across the callused bumps at the top of her palm. “How about you? How did you get those?"
She looked down at her palm as though it were a journal recounting the history of her life. "Pulling potatoes? Digging? Hoeing? Lifting heavy crates? Some or all of those things.”
"How about these?” He touched the leathery spots on her fingers. She shivered when he touched her.
“I think that was the time I planted squash and forgot to wear gardening gloves."
“Do you ever wear garden gloves?”
She shook her head. “Almost never. I like the feel of the earth beneath my fingers. There's something magical about breaking apart a lump of clay and feeling its texture, and the moisture within the soil. I want to touch the earth and the plants I work with. With gloves it’s not the same.”
"I know how you feel. Maybe I could have avoided some of the burns on my hands if I didn’t get so up close and personal with my food."
They were both glancing down at her hands smiled wryly. “I had a manicure and a pedicure on the weekend.” She’d already removed the polish from her nails since it had chipped within a day. “The aesthetician thought I was a rock climber. When I told her what I do she said I have to start wearing gloves.“
"I think your hands are beautiful." She was so surprised she would have pulled her hands out of his grasp had he not tightened his grip at the same moment. Holding them captive. She stared at him. “No one could like these hands."
"Someone else who works with their hands could."
And then he picked up one of her hands and pressed his lips against the hard calluses of her palms. The kiss was warm and moist and the sexiest thing that anyone had ever done to her in her whole entire life. He looked up as though gauging her response and whatever he saw on her face, he must've realized she was thrilled that someone should find her beaten up hands a thing of beauty. He kept his gaze on hers and lifted her hand once more. He kissed the bottom of her palm. He kissed the side edge that was more leather than skin. He slid the sleeve of her sweater a little higher exposing her wrist. “Any calluses up here?”
She was breathless, feeling the thrill go all through her. “I don't think so," she whispered.
"I'd better check.” And then he pressed his lips to the most sensitive part of her wrist where her pulse was speeding up.
He kissed his way up towards her elbow pushing her sweater a little higher with each kiss. It was the slowest seduction she had ever experienced and yet the most intimate. When he got to her elbow and pressed his lips against the inner part where the skin was so sensitive she made a tiny sound, kind of a moan, and he abandoned the inside of her elbow and leaned forward, kissing her mouth.
She was so hungry for him, and she’d wanted this for so long, she threw her arms around him and kissed him back with every fiber of her being. She pushed her calloused hands into his hair, traced the shape of his head, ran her fingers down over his shoulders, over his back, pressing herself against him until something like a growl came out of his throat.
